I'm tired.
Some nights,
I don't even sleep, anymore.
Spending hours with eyes staring blank,
spacing out into my own empty spaces.
Sometimes, in the darkness
of the midnight,
I explore these places,
these hidden nooks and crannies
of the inner stores of my deepest selves,
spending hours upon single places;
my own empty spaces.
I've grown tired
of this waking stupor
and the life that surrounds it,
the reality that permeates everything
like the patterns in deja vu,
the trends in dreams.
I walk blindly,
aimlessly throughout
hallways boobytrapped with people,
emotions that lie in wait to jump out, to pounce.
They want to jump out and jump in
to all my nooks and crannies;
these same special places,
my empty spaces.
I don't recognize people,
anymore, don't connect, don't relate.
My brain has been fried from late nights and days
that asked too much of my fragile selves,
looked too hard for places to shove
their doubt; their special places,
my empty spaces.
I feel tired
of this mortality, this flesh
and blood and bones that only assemble
due to the random collections of particles,
the creation of bonds and repulsion,
electrical tugs with not pattern.
I shove my being into
these places,
my special places,
my vain spaces.
They don't know about their
lack of existence, so we can wait,
we can watch and resume this trend of
using and being used, of assuming
and guessing all the answers
to basic behaviors,
the layout
of people and words
meant to trap me within my
own mind, my own paranoid insomnia
and my gaps of humanity,
rushing to be filled
with imaginary
electricity.

I haven't slept
in far too long.